


Three Things That Never Happened To Anthony Crowley

by Daegaer



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Anger, Christmas, Crossover, Demons, Love Triangles, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-12
Updated: 2003-08-12
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19476670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Some things that never happened to Crowley.





	Three Things That Never Happened To Anthony Crowley

"Oh, come on," Aziraphale said cajolingly. "It _is_ Christmas."

"I don't do Christmas," Crowley said. He mimed having horns and flickered his tongue at the angel. "Remember?"

"Be a dear. I don't want to have to go off by myself."

Crowley sighed. Aziraphale smiled in that winning way which tended to mean _Unless you let me win I will nag you without drawing breath for the next decade and remember, I mean that literally._

"Oh, all right," Crowley said in annoyance. "What are we doing?"

"A nice dying vision for a poor little match girl."

"A _what?_ Do they still have them?"

"Apparently," Aziraphale said, checking his diary.

The angel suddenly looked rather different. Crowley took in the shining white robe, the poncy hair-do and the peaches and cream complexion.

"You have _got_ to be kidding," he said.

"It's traditional. Don't be a spoilsport."

Crowley looked around until he saw a card that didn't make him want to vomit too much, and took on the appearance of the anodyne angel on it. Aziraphale gave him an encouraging smile. And a harp. Crowley settled his sunglasses more firmly on his nose. They vanished.

They appeared in a snowy dark alleyway with a little sparkle of light and a dusting of tinkly music. Crowley pursed his lips. Aziraphale checked his diary again and peered into the doorway of what proclaimed itself to be a tobacco shop. There didn't seem to be any street lighting, but this was compensated for by the repulsive smell. They were clearly in one of the more -- scenic -- areas of London, Crowley thought. And he didn't remember any snow in Soho.

"Dear me," Aziraphale said. "I do hope we're in the right place. Perhaps we should ask someone."

He turned round and smiled cheerfully.

"Ah! Excuse me, sir, I was wonder- oof!"

Crowley had very little time to laugh about the angel getting a snowball in the face before he was spitting rather unpleasantly flavoured crystals himself. It was the stone in the middle that really irritated him. With an effect he'd always been particularly proud of his white robe burned away in a plume of hellfire, leaving a black-clad and angry demon advancing purposefully. Aziraphale grabbed him, whimpering about the Christmas spirit at much the same time as their diminutive assailant got them both with another set of wickedly aimed snowballs, jumped on the back of a passing sleigh and was whisked to safety. The driver waved cheerily at them.

EVENING, FELLOWS. HO. HO. HO.

They looked at each other, and vanished. This time Aziraphale didn't bother with the special effects.

In Aziraphale's back room, Crowley stuffed another mince pie in his mouth, purely for medicinal purposes.* The angel flung back a large glass of mulled wine and refilled for both of them. They carefully didn't meet each other's eyes.

"That was --," Crowley said finally.

"Azrael, yes," Aziraphale said.

"And he was --"

"Dressed as Santa Claus, yes."

Crowley sighed heavily. Bloody Christmas spirit. No one had any self respect at this time of year. He might as well join in. He grabbed the two remaining mince pies.

"Ho, bloody ho," he muttered.

*The angel routinely put extravagant amounts of brandy in everything he baked. Crowley had long since learned to be very careful if offered a sandwich.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Crowley considered his options. He was a demon of the world; he liked to think he was mature enough to apologise if he'd been caught doing wrong. Not that wrongdoing wasn't his job description, but there was wrongdoing and wrongdoing. And there was, of course, getting caught. He was fairly sure he could find it within him to say _I'm sorry_ , and to be able to continue his dinner in peace. He didn't say the words often, and usually in the particularly English way that meant "could you repeat that, please?" It would be a novelty, a learning experience, to actually say them in an apology. He hoped he wouldn't hiss too much from stage fright.

"I don't want to hear from you again," Aziraphale said coldly.

He got up, and made to leave. Crowley gaped at him in surprise.

"Aziraphale! Sit down. Don't be so silly."

The angel looked at him in a way he didn't like at all, as if he was something unpleasant and slimy that Aziraphale wouldn't half mind squashing. Angels had looked at him that way before, and it was rather unsettling. There'd been a whole squadron of them hanging round the Garden at the end, and all of them had looked at him that way. He suspected it was the 'no death in Eden' rule that was all that had saved him. Those considering looks, that edge of disgust - it had worn him down after a while, taken the shine off his normal optimistic outlook on life. It had been a lonely and downhearted demon that had sneaked up on the lone angel doing sentry duty at the Eastern Gate, hoping that one of the bastards might actually speak to him, and see he'd just been doing his job.

"Aziraphale, if you tell me what I've done, I'll apologise. Really. All I said was I thought it was your book club thing tonight."

After a long moment, the angel sat down again. He was still looking at Crowley like he wanted to step on him.

"You got the result you wanted. Why do you want to apologise?" he said.

"I don't know what you're on about!" Crowley said, hoping the shade of desperation would be taken as bewilderment rather than guilt.

"She doesn't want to see me any more," Aziraphale said. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"She?" Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked at him quietly. Crowley fought the urge to fiddle with the cutlery.

"All right, all right," he said. "I -- went to your book club thingy a fortnight ago to see if you wanted to go for a drink. They said you hadn't been there for weeks. So I followed you last week."

"I see," Aziraphale said. "And?"

"And _what were you thinking?_ Maybe you thought it was just an innocent little friendship, but let me tell you, I did you a favour. She wanted more than a kiss on the cheek, you idiot. You could have got in a right lot of trouble without me helping you out."

"Helping me out," Aziraphale said. "She said she was so very sorry, she didn't know what had come over her. She'd never gone out and slept with men she'd picked up on the street before. She said she didn't deserve anyone decent, she was just dirty, and she asked me to leave. I thought to myself, _now who do I know who specialises in despair and nasty jokes?_ And then - so coincidentally - you ring asking do I feel like giving the book club a miss tonight."

Crowley wondered why Aziraphale wasn't shouting. He'd have been shouting at this point.

"I couldn't have made her do it if she hadn't wanted to at some level," he said defensively. "You know how it works. And I was doing it for you, anyway. You can't trust humans, they're fickle. And she was taking up your time."

"What gives you the right to interfere in my life?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley gave in and fiddled with the cutlery. He looked up to see that Aziraphale seemed to actually want an answer. He fiddled with the cutlery some more.

"There must be some reason," Aziraphale said. "Why do you think you have that right? Why do you decide what I should or should not do?"

Crowley stared hard at the tablecloth. He wished he could start over and apologise properly. He wished he could answer the question without sounding like an idiot.

"Coward," Aziraphale said, and stood up and left.

Crowley thought of many answers over the next few hours, but there was no one there to hear them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Crowley had been on edge throughout dinner. He hadn't really been eating, more picking at his food and shoving it angrily around the plate. Aziraphale had tried to draw him out, but had got nowhere, getting only curt, monosyllabic answers. Finally, he gave up. If Crowley wanted to be unpleasant there was no point trying to chat. They were almost finished their main courses when Crowley looked up, glaring at him. He was blushing fiercely.

"I'm pregnant," he said.

Aziraphale gaped at him. Then he made his first mistake.

"What? How?"

"How," Crowley hissed icily, "do you think?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, feeling himself start to go pink in sympathy.

He made his second mistake.

"Well, I suppose it's not beyond the bounds of possibility. Technically you're as much not a woman as you're not a man. Interesting."

Crowley made a noise like a very large aerosol. Aziraphale blithely made his third mistake.

"Are you sure it's mine?"

All the blood drained from Crowley's face. Aziraphale was astonished to see that he could in fact go paler than he normally was.

"Am I sure?" he said in a low and dangerous voice. "Am I _sure?_ " he screamed.

Heads turned all over the restaurant. Crowley leaped up from his seat.

"You _bastard!_ You get me drunk, you take advantage of me and you ask if I'm _sure?_ "

People began turning their chairs for a better view. Aziraphale made placatory gestures. How annoying. It looked like this was yet another restaurant they'd never be able to patronise again.

"Sit _down_ ," he said. "We'll talk about this somewhere else."

"How was I supposed to know this would happen? I've always thought of myself as a man!"

" _Sshhh!_ "

"Don't you 'sssssssshh' me," Crowley hissed loudly.

He jumped up on the table. Aziraphale was mortified that his clothes vanished mid-leap.

"Well? Don't give me that 'it's not beyond the bounds of possibility' rubbish. Don't I look male to you?"

Aziraphale fixed his gaze on the table. He later decided this was probably a fourth mistake, because by the time he registered that Crowley was in search of a new victim, it was too late. The feet bounced out of his field of vision, and there was a stifled shriek from the next table over. Aziraphale looked up quickly. Crowley was standing, hands on hips, staring down at a horrified diner.

"Excuse me, madam," he said in a strained polite tone. "I was wondering if you could settle an argument I'm having with my -- friend. Would you say I'm male?"

"Er. Yes," she said, dragging her gaze up to his face. "Very much so."

He knelt down in her lemon sole and patted her on the shoulder.

"Thank you. Your husband's cheating on you, by the way. You should divorce him."

Aziraphale saw that the waiters had come out of their shocked daze and were converging on Crowley. He stood and clapped his hands, once. Everyone in the restaurant froze, with the exception of the demonic centrepiece.

"Off the table," Aziraphale said angrily. "Someone Up There could notice I've done this. We're leaving."

He emptied his wallet over their table, marched over and grabbed Crowley's ankle.

"Down. Now."

Crowley shook him off and hopped down. He was dressed again as his feet touched the floor. He stormed out of the restaurant, leaving Aziraphale to follow. Aziraphale looked round at the restaurant wearily.

"Forget," he said.

He ran after the sound of hormonally imbalanced swearing. This could only get worse before it got better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


End file.
